Scorched: The Archangel Series, #1

By Jack O. Daniel

From the author of Promise Me comes another riveting story.

Pope and Jules are enjoying the time of their lives having a 'honeymoon-before-the-wedding' in Paris when three bombs go off in their hotel. They are forced to take action. Fortunately, they know just what to do in the event of a terror attack.

Pope is ex-Delta Force; now a sniper instructor at Quantico for the FBI. Jules, on the other hand, is with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit.

By sheer coincidence, the son of the U.S. Vice-President is staying in the same hotel.  The terrorists discover this. Now the hunt is on to find him; they need a high-profile hostage, but not if his security detail has anything to say about it.

The fiasco quickly escalates.  Spies, analysts, intelligence officers scramble to get to the bottom of the terror attack.

Who?

Why?

How?

These are just a few questions that need answers after the bombing and the hostage-taking.  As they dig deeper, it becomes apparent that this incident is just the beginning, will they be able to get to the bottom of it before it is too late for the world?

This is a must-read. Get your copy now! 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Massachusetts Books
• Release date: Apr 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386134558

Jack O. Daniel

Jack is an enigma.  He is an observer of people and a chronicler of life.

Book preview

Publisher’s Note

WE WRITE AND PUBLISH our e-books using the Queen’s English, with colloquial and Australian slang thrown in for good measure.

Although we are different, we hope that you would enjoy our stories and the style by which we have chosen to chronicle it.

Happy reading.

1:  The Honeymoon

FOR THE ENGAGED COUPLE, the evening began with a stroll. Ambling hand in hand, giggling like young lovers, they walked along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Up ahead, the Eiffel Tower looked majestic; it towered over the City of Paris, standing guard, tall and erect. Throngs of tourists were queuing to enter the magnificent landmark, so they opted to meander along the Boulevard.

‘Why go up the top to see the city when you can experience it up close and personal?’ John Paul said, more commonly known among his cohorts as Pope for his unfortunate name-surname combination.

He gazed at his lovely fiancée, June Callaghan. She was drop-dead gorgeous to his rough and tumble persona. He still couldn’t believe his luck!

THEY HAD MET AT THE shooting range, of all places. But regardless of the unusual location of their first meeting, theirs was a match made in heaven.

Pope was a former commando with Delta Force, now a sniper instructor at the FBI Academy.

He was drilling a group of recruits in the fine art of shooting when in walked June, accompanied by Heckler and Koch. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

She set up and got ready for target shooting. Her long, slim legs were apart, knees slightly bent. Her dominant right hand gripped the gun, while the other steadied it. Then, she fired off successive shots.

He had watched, but not at her shooting skills, but at those long legs in skinny jeans that were connected to a lovely shaped ass, up to a tiny waist, that was attached to a graceful neck and a pony-tailed head. The only thing that stopped him stripping her naked, albeit only in his fertile imagination, was the gun she was firing. The HK45 Tactical looked comfortable in her hand and with an aim like that, he wasn’t going to dare.

She had turned around and caught him staring. Feeling sheepish, he removed his FBI cap, smiled and bowed. She smiled back, which was a good thing because he wasn’t wearing his vest.

A little while later, he found out that she was with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, the Bureau’s serial killer catcher, among other things.

They got acquainted, became fast friends and fell madly in love. Finally, eighteen months later, here they were as an engaged couple. Still not sure about the wedding date, though; they’d had to postpone it several times for work-related reasons.

Contrary to common misconception, no thanks to Hollywood, the Bureau, in fact, didn’t have rules, written or otherwise, preventing agents dating other agents. It didn’t encourage it, but it didn’t discourage it either. The decision was left to the individual since it couldn’t be helped whom one got attracted to or whom one fell in love with. As a result, there were agents married to one another in the FBI.

Soon, fingers crossed, serial killers permitting, Pope and June would be added to their ranks.

PLAYFULLY TUGGING HER pigtail, he asked, ‘Hungry?’

She looked up at him with a smile and replied, ‘More than you know. All this walking....’

‘Let’s go back, change into something formal. I’m taking you out to the most famous restaurant in all of Paris,’ he said proudly.

She giggled. Listening to him make every effort to be the romantic tickled her to bits. Though she was a seasoned and toughened law enforcement agent, she still wasn’t beyond feeling giddy when it came to Pope’s courting efforts.

For their long overdue holiday, a honeymoon-before-the-wedding kind of thing, Pope splashed out. The sky was the limit. Five months ago, when he asked her where she wanted to go, she had said Paris.

So, Paris it had to be; there were no ifs or buts. And, they were going to do it in style.

He booked a room at the Banke Hôtel for the entire duration of their stay. Luckily, he got it at a special rate. Otherwise, a Federal employee like him wouldn’t have been able to stretch the budget that far.

The Baroque revival hotel was housed in a former bank that had an ornate columned façade. The interior was grand in scale and lavishly decorated.

The room appointed to them didn’t disappoint. In the interior, charming period detailing had been retained; in this case, there was a marble fireplace that provided a romantic ambience enhanced by modern furnishings and amenities. Conveniently located, the hotel was near the Chaussée d'Antin-La Fayette métro station and less than a mile from the Louvre Museum.

Pope called the concierge from their room to confirm their reservation at Josefin, a fine dining restaurant just a short walk from the hotel.

He was assured that a table was indeed reserved for them, ‘In a quiet corner, sir, as requested.’

At his insistence, they showered together. To be fair, June didn’t need any convincing, for who in her right mind would refuse to be naked in the shower with a hunk?

The scrubbing led to kissing which led to groping which resulted in aerobics of a certain kind. The ecstasy that came in waves consumed them, but eventually, like all good things, it had to end.

Getting ready was easy for Pope. He had already decided on a white Hugo Boss shirt, black dress pants and leather shoes.

June selected a white strapless dress. It was fairly long, going all the way down to her mid-calves with a split along the side that reached near the top of her thigh. The material hugged her body, defining her shape and accentuating every curve; the swell of her firm breasts, her flat abdomen and the hips that reminded him of Halle Berry as she emerged out of the water in the film, Die Another Day.

Sitting in a plush armchair, his chin resting on his knuckles, Pope watched her the entire time, admiring the way she wriggled into the tight-fitting dress.

She finished dressing with a flourish. Tossing her long dark hair back put a quiver in his groin. Slipping her feet into her four-inch heels just about did him in.

‘Shall we?’ she asked.

‘We shall,’ he said. He rose from his seat and offered her his elbow grandly.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, peering into his eyes.

He flashed her that devilish smile.

They took the elevator from the sixth floor to the lobby, gave the valet a friendly nod and walked towards the restaurant on Rue La Fayette.

They introduced themselves to the maître d’, who led them to a corner table so that Pope could sit with his back against the wall, an acquired habit. Something to do with his Delta Force past.

The waitress, a lovely young Indian woman, approached to ask if they were ready to order. As she hovered, June rubbed Pope’s thigh seductively, causing his voice to raise an octave when he asked for a bottle of Champagne, ‘Möet, Rosé Impérial.’

Suspecting that something must be happening under the table, the gorgeous French-Indian waitress tried to suppress a giggle. She then said, ‘Good choice, Monsieur,’ before leaving to get his order.

He tried to peruse the menu while June continued to amuse herself with him.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked under his breath, unable to concentrate.

June giggled. She carried on teasing; rubbing his thigh, higher this time, close to his crotch. He gripped her hand and glared.

‘Stop it,’ he said.

‘Make me,’ she replied.

Instead, Pope guided her hand to his hard-on. She had another giggle.

The waitress returned with the bottle of champagne just as Pope’s brain was going into orbit. He coughed, spluttered, and rose from his seat quicker than she could say, ‘Boo!’

‘We’re taking it,’ he said as he fumbled for his wallet to pay for the bottle.

With that, he grabbed June’s hand and practically lifted her.

‘Come on; we’re going.’

June had another fit of the giggles.

It was the longest mile for Pope.

The valet was surprised to see them again so soon. They got into the elevator, only to have to wait ‘til they got back to the room before he could rip the dress off her. With them in the elevator car were a Chinese couple and their six-year-old son, it just wouldn’t be appropriate.

Pope used June as a human shield to hide his erection, but to get even, he kept rubbing his hardness against her backside. She desperately tried to stop laughing but failed miserably, causing the family to wonder what was so funny.

Thank God for magnetic keys, because if he’d had to fumble with a traditional key to open the door, he was certain that they would just have to do it right there.

The rest of the evening was consumed with passion that was fiery, unreserved, and delirious.

‘I can’t remember having so much fun for one night,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she replied, stroking his bald head. ‘Too busy.’

‘Remind me not to take you for granted, ever.’

‘And me, you,’ she replied.

They cuddled in bed, naked, uncaring about the rest of the world. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand: eight-p.m.

He turned to his woman, kissed the top of her head and said, ‘Hungry?’

She had another fit of laughter.

‘Yes, order room service.’

Pope was about to get up when suddenly there was a loud explosion. The double-glazed windows shook.

Then, another; then, a third blast—each louder than the previous one.

He glanced at the glass window just as it spider-webbed from the concussive effect of the bombs. He jumped on top of June, rolled them down the side of the bed farthest away from the window just as it shattered!

2: Get Ready

THE FIRST THING THAT came out from Pope’s lips was, ‘Are you okay?’

‘I will be,’ she hissed, ‘the minute you get off me! Not that I mind, but you’re darn heavy.’

He couldn’t help but smile. When she was feisty like that, she could only be all right. He raised himself on one knee to check that the tempered glass window was indeed totally shattered, a protective hand still pressed on June’s chest.

She rolled her eyes, though she secretly loved it whenever he acted all protective and chivalrous.

‘Stay down,’ he instructed, turning to face her to make sure she was prepared to comply.

The explosions had blacked out the whole building. Pope groped for his pants in the dark, then put them on. He felt for the Hugo Boss shirt; he looked at it unseeing in the darkness then shook his head.

There goes another good shirt.

June followed suit. She had developed the habit of arranging everything in the wardrobe in the same way, whether at home or when travelling. She knew, for instance, that shirts were on the top shelf on the right-hand side, while shorts and pants were on the second. She always stored underwear in the drawer. Dresses and skirts hung neatly. And the shoes were always lined up in pairs at the bottom.

She selected by feel a long-sleeved T-shirt. She didn’t know it yet, but it was the right colour for the occasion—midnight black. Her hands pulled on a pair of stretchy pants. Perfect, she thought, they won’t snag. She then put on a pair of well-worn Hoka One running shoes.

‘Here,’ she said softly to Pope, ‘put these on.’

He took them from her. It was his sports footwear. Nike, he knew, because it was the only pair he travelled with. He wasted no time putting them on, then moved crab-like towards the suitcase resting against the wall inside the wardrobe. He opened it and felt inside the zippered pocket for the two things he never travelled without—his Swiss Champ XLT Swiss Army knife and his black knitted beanie; he put it on to hide his shiny bald head.

‘Ready?’ he asked June.

‘Ready when you are.’

They stood up at the same time, hugged each other and took a deep breath.

He gingerly opened the door. He peered down the corridor, looking left and right to make sure that there were no surprises.

‘Okay, follow me.’

June placed her left hand on his back as she followed the direction he took.

He had just opened the fire exit door when the elevator, situated a few feet behind them, pinged. Several men came out, their voices overlapping as they spoke. Pope thought one of the men spoke a word in Urdu, Pakistan’s national language. He nudged June to enter the fire exit, then followed, before carefully closing the door behind him.

3: The Search

THREE MEN CAME OUT of the elevator car, then they split up immediately. One stayed behind to sabotage it to prevent people from escaping; it took him just a few minutes to do this.

One turned left and the other right. They were each carrying an AK-47 fitted with a stream light strobe; it served as their only light source. They walked down the length of the corridor, banging the doors and walls and shouting instructions for the hotel guests to come out. They threatened to shoot if the occupants didn’t comply.

One by one, the doors opened. In the darkness, petrified kids and adults alike used their cell phones’ flashlights to find their way. They were marched at gunpoint and herded in one of the rooms. The man who disabled the elevator stood over the terrified hotel guests aiming his assault weapon at his prisoners to keep them compliant.

One of the two men soon returned to report.

‘Room 617 is vacant,’ he said.

‘Maybe they’re not in,’ suggested the other. There was indeed a high probability of that, but the alpha male standing over the guests was not satisfied.

‘Check the rooms again, and don’t forget the fire exit.’

He then instructed the other to confiscate all the cell phones.

Now, with the gun’s laser lights being the only source of illumination, the guests were even more freaked out. The whole scene was a living nightmare. The red dot dancing on their chest or head gave everyone a sense of doom.

MEANWHILE, POPE AND June had now reached the third-floor landing.

Just out of curiosity, he opened the fire door slightly on this floor.

He witnessed armed men, their faces covered with balaclavas, herding guests at gunpoint.

‘What’s going on?’ June whispered.

He put a finger on her lips, indicating that now wasn’t the right time to talk.

Simultaneously, they looked up when they heard a fire door above them open. They were now hyper-alert.

‘Fuck,’ he said, which just happened to be his favourite word. It covered a whole lot of things; it can mean good or bad depending on the context.

Pope tapped June on the shoulder.

‘Down, quick.’

She didn’t hesitate. She soft-raced down the steps, her footfalls cushioned by the super thick soles of her runners. Pope was close behind. In less than a minute, they were on the bottom floor, but the terrorist was also coming down the stairs.

They could see the flashes of his stream